Dagdrömmare
by Crimson Sheets
Summary: Novelist Obito Uchiha has been searching for a hint at beauty resting within the dark crevices that surface in ink on Earth. Deciding to take a trip with complete strangers, he's taking a trip of a lifetime with someone who sparks a flame of beauty, energy, and creativity from the start. AU setting.


Dagdrömmare

The trip was inspirational, a spur of the moment kind of thing.

As a novelist, there were few things _didn't_ inspire Obito. Writing came easy, words were simple and had influence upon an audience. Dream worlds where the skies were pink and clouds were made of cotton candy is what brought life into believable characters, sugar-like feelings, and honest reactions is what made life something to enjoy. Books were fantasy worlds were the impossible became possible; a world that was thought to be perfect, much like the one Obito currently resided in.

That, he had mused a few times over, was the purpose of the trip he was taking. He had heard tales and stories of areas around the world that were known for being beautiful, mystical even, where clouds parted to greet the sunshine and flowers blossomed like young love in fields seen for miles. These places, these real-life fantasy sights, he had to see for himself. Surely they were fixed on a computer screen, advertised to be something they were not.

Obito had little belief in what some say to be fact: life couldn't be beautiful, not when it had treated him so poorly.

Perhaps the trip hadn't been a total spur of the moment. Maybe Obito wanted to prove himself wrong, to show himself that made up worlds bound by leather and drawn by letters were not the only form of beauty in such a merciless life.

Whatever the case was, the novelist had already spent too much time and money to take his decision back now. With three suitcases and bag of empty notebooks, Obito was ready to embark on a journey to find inspiration not only for his fiction worlds and dreamless characters, but for himself.

T he notebooks would provide a way to release creativity. In these daily writings would be noted here. Obito had no set description or rules on what was written down, only that he _had_ to write when the day was over. With three or four accompanying him, though, there was enough room to begin another story if the spark ignited so.

In addition, the trip would provide another source of entertainment. Not having a clue how to properly enjoy the natural world and its wonders, Obito had signed up for a grouping of people to tour across the world with. In doing so, he was enabled comfort in knowing that he wouldn't be alone on the trip, he would have proper touring and reservations to see the real dreams he had only heard about over commercials. The trip brings strangers together; he had read when signing up, it brings _comfort_.

He might have doubted that, just a bit. There was little comfort in being paired with a stranger.

Each person going would be given a buddy, someone to confide in and to share a room with, a seat next to on the plane, the train, a tent with in the woods where Little Red might have skipped at in one the many fairytales Obito was so fond of.

He had been curious of this person, if he were to be honest. Would this person share similar interests with him? Would they argue and disagree on trivial subjects such as who cooks their eggs the correct way? Or stay up late and speak as though they had been best friends from the start about the stars and mysteries of the Earth? Would this person be like a character he had made up in the ungodly hours of the morning with a mug of black coffee steaming to the side? Yes, Obito was curious and as more and more people started to fill the bus, small flutters of butterfly breaths against his ribcage as his nerves jumped excitedly- and how _long_ it had been since he had been excited.

A little slip in hand told the owner where to sit on the bus. A number followed by a letter that had been drawn from a hat, before entering the bus. Obito had decided quickly that it was a moderately _childish_ idea, but, he had supposed, it served its purpose in matching the participants at random. He had also noted that it was a good way to avoid being the last person left without a partner when it was time to depart.

Who would want to sit with a man with scars gracing porcelain features down and under layers of clothing, anyhow?

No one, Obito had long since decided.

However, the novelist grew weary as time wore on and people passed him to sit further back. Some made eye contact, smiled, quickly averted their eyes, and, all the same, moved onward. Sitting directly in the middle, Obito's stomach always buzzed with each step taken towards him, hoping that perhaps the beautiful woman ribbons of hair and a gentle smile would sit with him, or the young man with vibrant vermilion hair would take the open seat next to him. It didn't happen, however, and as more and more filled the bus, Obito wondered if perhaps he had drawn the odd number, the short end of the stick, and had been left alone once again.

A turn of his head left obsidian gems to on look the empty parking lot as the early morning gave the streets an orange glow from streetlights as black sky sprinkled starlight on everything but what Obito wanted to see. Perhaps, Obito thought to himself, this was destiny; to truthfully be alone as he had been from the start.

And then, as fate would have it, he was struck.

A soft curse was heard above the murmur of people present on the bus and Obito had glanced, just for a moment, to see.

He was young, that much was obvious from the lanky nature and long limbs with wobbly joints and hipbones poking from under the thin fabric of a baseball shirt. With sunshine dripping like liquid gold down, down, down to rest at his waist in a thick curtain and eyes brighter than any ocean he had ever written about, this boy was something Obito had never thought to be real. Curses flew from chapped lips as digits searched through deep pockets of worn jeans (were those paint splatters against his thigh?), a tongue poking out to wet petals, a single ball of metal accompanying. Obito, with a quick glance around the bus, back to his seat, and back to the boy with a look of relief on his face as a crumbled slip of paper was held in the light of bus, felt the world crash against his shoulders as waves would upon the sand of the beach as crystals as clear as the sky moved from seat number to seat number before finally, _finally_, landing on the empty seat beside the novelist.

"I suppose this is for me, yeah?" A single finger was pointed at the seat though before Obito found himself able to comprehend anything from the other, the blond boy was already seated, a crackling of knuckles following as boney shoulders slumped forwards.

Obito itched to reach into the bag at his feet- the one he had been allowed to bring on the bus- and dig out a notebook. So badly he wanted to scribble details down about the mysterious boy with a velvet voice and metal gracing his tongue who, it seemed, was used to being late.

"It's not that I'm forgetful, but I might have woken up a little late." A pause follows, "or early, depending on your stance, yeah."

Perhaps the world was not as ugly and ink drenched as he had thought.


End file.
